


Love Letters In Your Hair

by daughterofawolf



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Braids, Cultural Differences, Dwarven Culture, Fluff, Hair Braiding, I love braiding in tolkien fanfic so here we are, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Bilbo Baggins, POV Thorin, We start with Thorin but we'll get to Bilbo's feelings on the matters later, because dragon sickness is a thing, because i'm always a slut for intimacy, braiding, but it's gonna be okay you've read the tags you know it is, so here's two dorks finding home in each other and all that good shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29349936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofawolf/pseuds/daughterofawolf
Summary: Dwarves care a lot about braids. Hobbit's don't braid their hair at all, but when the burglar's hair starts getting too long, a certain young prince suggests he let someone braid it. How that someone ends up being the king under the mountain, Thorin isn't quite sure, but as much as he resents the company's teasing he can't deny the strange peace he finds with his hands in the Hobbit's hair.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 54
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

“Do Hobbits ever braid their hair?” Kili leaned forward inquisitively, flashing his signature curious grin at the master burglar.

“Hmm,” Bilbo was sitting as comfortably as he could against the stone of the cave, legs crossed in front of him as he took a slow drag from his pipe. It had been a rare easy day of walking, despite the hills, and spirits were higher than usual as they bedded down for the evening. “No, I can’t say that we do, although we braid rope sometimes to make it strong, or use braided ribbons for decorations.” He exhaled a puff of smoke. “I never really thought about braids in hair until I met elves and I’d certainly never seen such fine braids as yours until I met this company. Hobbits keep their hair short for the most part, and with the curls there’s little need to braid it out of the way.”

Thorin watched the conversation out of the corner of his eye from where he was going over the map with Balin. Even on calmer days, it was still hard for him to feel at ease on the road; he had learned that lesson the hard way after the goblins. He ran a hand through his hair distractedly, missing the way the Hobbit’s eyes flicked towards him at the motion. There was no way they’d make it by Durin’s day at the pace they were going, especially if things kept going wrong, and he was quite certain they would—no one had ever accused Thorin Oakenshield of being an optimist.

“Would you braid it?” Thorin was only half-listening as Fili joined in the conversation “if it was long enough?”

Bilbo tilted his head to the side “I can’t see why not. I’m sure my neighbors in the shire wouldn’t know what to make of me if they saw me with dwarven braids, but gracious knows I’m not much of a ‘respectable’ Hobbit anymore, and as I’m traveling with a company of dwarves I can’t say I’d mind much. Of course, one of you would have to help me, I’m not sure I could do it myself.”

Fili gave his brother a warning look but Kili only continued “Oh I’m sure one of our company would be _happy_ to braid your hair for you Master Hobbit, if you ever did decide to try a dwarven style.”

“Then, I suppose I shall consider it, once this gets a bit longer If one of you would be so willing. Although—” 

The conversation was promptly interrupted by the sound of a tin plate clattering to the ground. “My apologies,” said Thorin. His face betrayed no emotion as he picked the dish up from where it had fallen, although he could feel his ears burning. Balin gave him a strange look but he quickly focused the discussion of the next day’s route and the uncharacteristic clumsiness was soon forgotten.

It wasn’t until he was staring at the stars alone in his bedroll that night that Thorin had time to reflect on why the conversation between his nephews and their peculiar burglar had surprised him so. He had never thought much about Bilbo’s—Hobbits' hair, before. When he had first encountered the burglar, standing on his doorstep he had had bigger concerns than the oddities of the strange creature Gandalf had enlisted to help him in his quest. Everything about him, from his unclad feet to his nervous, blustering manner had mainly struck Thorin as thoroughly unfit for such a dangerous and important endeavor. Of course, he didn’t feel that way now. He may have been a bit stubborn when it came to Bilbo, doubting him long past the time he had proved he was committed to seeing their journey through, but his opinion had quite thoroughly changed since Bilbo had rejoined the company after their scrape with the goblins and the image of Bilbo and his tiny blade clashing against Azog from above him still filled Thorin with a hot flush of shame at his prior feelings. Yes, he had a great deal of respect for their small, strange burglar, so why had he been so caught off guard by the idea of the Hobbit wearing dwarven braids in his hair if he no longer begrudged him his part in their odd family? Perhaps, it was just his old suspicions. Did he find it hard to believe that one of another race would see beauty in dwarven customs? Or was it Kili’s words about the company being happy to braid the burglar’s hair? Thorin felt himself flush slightly at the thought. Braiding was intimate, but it wasn’t inappropriate for kin or close friends to do so for each other, especially in war or other hard times. Why should it bother him so much if Kili was willing to honor the Hobbit in such a way. 

That was the first night he dreamt of honey-colored curls, but not the last.

***

Bilbo’s hair was definitely getting longer. That was why Thorin kept staring at it. It was a natural curiosity, by all means. He certainly wasn’t the only member of the company interested in Hobbits. Ori had not stopped asking him questions since Bilbo had first opened up about the ways of the Shire and was now often found scribbling bits of Hobbit lore into one of his ever-present notebooks. Fili and Kili had developed a tendency to ask impertinent questions that caused their burglar to flush a beautiful scarlet, although whether that was out of true curiosity or just a desire to see the burglar flustered was hard to say. Bombur had even started asking his help with cooking, enamored with Hobbits’ appreciation for food. Their journey had once again become more grim as they turned towards the forest and if such conversation passed the time and kept spirits up, Thorin had no reason to stop it. And if his own curiosity was bent upon the Hobbit's curls, that was perfectly fine. 

What of it if since that first idle conversation he had been unable to stop thinking of what it would be like to braid the Hobbit’s hair? He wondered if it would be as soft as it looked, like silk through his fingers. Or would it be coarser, More similar to his own or his nephews? Would the strands catch on the raised ridges of his fingertips? What kind of braids would Bilbo wear? Would he prefer a simpler working braid, or something more elaborate? Hobbits seemed to like decoration, perhaps something ornamental then. 

Thorin was grateful he had so much training in diplomacy as a young prince, his stoicism served him well when Dwalin nudged him from where he was staring. Surely, his devoted company believed he was thinking of their lost home and grand futures and not the way the firelight caught on the curls of a Hobbit, making him look like he was wreathed in a halo of warmth. Even if Balin did sometimes still look at him like he guessed something of his thoughts and he caught Kili giggling occasionally. No, there was no possible way they guessed his odd fixation.

***

It wasn’t until they were nearing the forest that the topic Thorin so dreaded and anticipated came up again. Crouching over a pot, Bilbo blew an errant curl out of his eyes with an irritated huff. “Right, that’s it.” 

“What, the stew’s done already?” Bombur moved over to where the Hobbit had risen, peering closely at the bubbling water.

“Oh, no. Sorry, Bombur. I was just distracted,” Bilbo ran a hand through what had only recently become rather a mane of curls. Thorin tried not to flush at the way his eyes followed the path of the small hands involuntarily. “I must do something about this hair, goodness knows there’s no one about to see what a poor representative of the shire I make, but it’s becoming quite a bother to have it flopping about in my face like this. Perhaps I should just have at it with Sting, I don’t suppose it would matter.”

Whether Kili caught the way his uncle’s face paled at the idea of Bilbo chopping off his hair, or he had simply been waiting for the proper moment to bring it up, Thorin didn’t know, but the smirk before he turned to the Hobbit was unmistakable: he was planning something. 

“You know, Master Baggins, you could always braid it.” 

“Ah, I’d quite forgotten about that. Well, if it’s not too much trouble, I think I might try that, yes. If someone would be so kind as to—” Bilbo looked expectantly to Kili whose face was a picture of innocence.

“Ahh...probably not me. I’ve never been very good at all that, don’t have the patience” Kili shook his head, eyes sparkling with mirth and Fili snorted lightly behind him.

“Oh, well then,” Bilbo looked awkwardly around the circle of dwarves, suddenly realizing all conversation had come to a halt. “Any of you could do it, I suppose, if you’re willing.”

Thorin watched the faces of his party, most of whom were suddenly looking quite busy with whatever task was nearest them and he even caught a faint blush on some of their cheeks. What was Kili playing at? The youngest dwarf, for his part, was still beaming like he’d done something rather clever and behind him Fili was looking at Thorin expectantly. Whatever his nephews thought, Thorin would not be roped into their shenanigans. Thorin made sure his face remained impassive, even if he caught Balin’s subtle glance towards him. Dammit! Did everyone here think he had some desire to braid the Hobbit’s hair? 

Bilbo was still looking around the circle, now somewhat confused by the awkward silence and shifting glances. Out of the corner of his eye Thorin caught Ori start to put a hand up before being nudged by Nori and quickly putting it down again. “Right then, that’s fine, I shall just—”

“I will braid your hair, Master Hobbit” Thorin’s voice sounded unnecessarily loud over the silence and he was sure those closest to him could see how red the backs of his ears had become.

“Oh—right. Yes, sure. Very kind of you.” The burglar was clearly flustered as he turned towards their stoic leader.

Thorin gestured him over, pointedly ignoring the looks from the others and Kili’s satisfied grin. Bilbo approached slowly and stood a short distance away looking up at Thorin hesitantly.

“I don’t bite,” Thorin said gruffly. He suddenly felt like laughing at the absurdity of the situation. For some reason the whole thing made him feel giddy as the Hobbit slowly moved to sit in front of him. “Right, you must tell me if I pull, or hurt you at all, I’ve never braided a Hobbit’s hair before, but I shall do my best.” Thorin watched as the burglar nodded softly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. 

Well, there was nothing else to do but start. He looked at the small burglar in front of him and, taking a deep breath, reached towards the golden curls. He noticed distantly that his hands were shaking slightly as he pushed his fingers through the twisting strands and—oh they were soft, softer even than he had imagined, but thicker too, not slight and wispy as they looked from afar. He laughed slightly as one of them slipped away from his grip, slight and springy under his large fingers. Thorin had never considered himself particularly good at braiding, he’d never had the patience for the more delicate elements, but now he was hyperaware of his gentle movements, careful not to pull the Hobbit’s hair as he slowly gathered the locks and weaved them together. He felt the burglar shudder slightly beneath him as he raked his fingertips across the back of the small ears, catching the wisps that fell there. He had decided on a basic working braid originally, easy to do with the shorter hair and rather simple, which would avoid prolonging their rather awkward situation any longer than necessary, but without thinking he found himself doing a style his mother used to do on him as a child: two smaller braids at the side joining into a single thicker queue at the back. He heard the Hobbit’s breath catch as he swept his hand against the back of his neck. His skin was so _soft._ It seems like everything about the Hobbit was soft, something Thorin had noticed when they first met with disdain, but now provoked rather an odd sense of wonder. 

“Sorry—did I hurt you?” Thorin’s hand stilled at the hiss that escaped the Hobbit’s lips. Bilbo twisted slightly to look up at him and he noticed a dusting of pink on the Hobbit’s cheekbones. “No, I, uh. You didn’t.” He looked down again, clearly flustered as Thorin returned to his work. He felt calmer than he had in weeks, in fact calmer than he could remember feeling in a long time. Certainly not since he met a meddling wizard and started a dangerous quest to reclaim his homeland. While it taken Thorin a minute to adjust to the different hair texture, Bilbo was remarkably easy to braid. Thorin could count the number of dwarves whose hair he’d braided on one hand, and it had been years since the last time. Fili had always done his best to be patient, but Kili had squirmed terribly when Thorin would braid his young nephews’ hair, impatient to get back to playing. His own brother had been the same way, although Thorin had admittedly not been very skilled or particularly gentle back then. Dis had rarely complained, but Frerin always scolded him for tugging too much. Braiding the Hobbit’s hair felt nothing like braiding his family’s. Bilbo sat remarkably still, fiddling with an acorn in his hands at first, but as time went on he stopped, tilting his head back slightly until it was almost on Thorin’s lap. Perhaps he found it as calming as Thorin did. He hadn’t expected a Hobbit to understand how dwarves felt about having your hair tended, but from the way his eyelids fluttered closed as Thorin traced his fingers across his scalp it seemed like Bilbo at least felt the same pleasure at the sensations. Even so, he couldn’t possibly understand in full. Thorin felt quite sure their proper Master Burglar would never have made such a request otherwise, let alone allowed Thorin of all people to be the one to fulfil it. No, he didn’t know what it meant. 

“Master Oakenshield-” Bilbo’s voice startled him out of his reverie. “You—you’ve stopped, have you finished?” The burglar was peering up at him. His cheeks were still rather pink but he was meeting Thorin’s gaze admirably well. Thorin looked down to find a completed braid in his hands. 

“My apologies, Master Baggins, I was lost in thought. Yes, it is finished.” Thorin quickly fastened the ends and watched as the Hobbit slowly raised his hands to run them hesitantly along the path of the braids, following them from his ears to the short tail in the back. 

“Well then, that is—quite impressive. I did not know you could—what am I saying, of course you can—I mean—” The Hobbit had gotten to his feet at this point and bowed slightly “My thanks, Master Dwarf for your assistance.” 

Thorin was still shaking himself from the spell of the strange calm that had held him and was surprised to find they were utterly alone. Bilbo seemed to have noticed the same thing as he flushed even redder slipping his hands in his pockets. “Of course, master Baggins. I am happy to have been of service, wouldn’t want your hair getting in the way next time you have to fight an Orc, now would we?” Thorin quirked his eyebrow at the flustered Hobbit who smiled. 

“Right, yes.” He turned to leave before stopping and adding almost hesitantly “Oh, and you may call me Bilbo, if you please.”

Thorin blinked, surprised. “Very well, Bilbo.” The word sounded strange in his deep voice, but it felt right on his tongue “And you may call me Thorin.”

“Oh I’m quite sure I couldn’t,” The burglar practically squeaked.

“Is it really so hard to use my use-name as you do for the others of this company?” Thorin leveled his gaze at the Hobbit.

“Well—no, I suppose I— thank you, Thorin.”

Thorin only nodded, although he could feel his face heating. It just didn’t feel right to continue with the formality. Not after all they had been through. Not when the burglar wore his braids in his hair. 

Why had he given Bilbo those particular braids? Only a few of the company were old enough to remember when a young dwarrow Thorin, son of Thrain—too young to be Oakenshield then—wore the same style in his hair, but he was sure it would not curtail the looks he would be getting now. Fili and Kili were going to be insufferable.

***

To an outside observer Thorin Oakenshield, future king under the mountain appeared as stoic as ever as his group sat around the fire that night, eating an only-slightly-burned stew, but those who knew him well noticed how his gruffness seemed to hide a softer mood, one that might have to do with how often his gaze lingered on the smallest member of their company—a Hobbit with dwarven braids weaved into his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely already have chapter 2 written so this fic is totally going to get finished, there's so much more braiding to come. Also! This is my third fic of all time so thank you for reading it!


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, it became a routine. They had found a stream a week or two later and had been happy to wash for the first time in what felt like months, even if the water was frigid. The Hobbit had, of course, kept most of his underclothing on and stared pointedly ahead as the naked dwarves laughed and splashed. Thorin hadn’t expected the pang he felt as he watched Bilbo carefully unwind the braids from his hair, but it had been even more unexpected when the Hobbit approached him that evening. He had agreed—of course he had, he wasn’t sure he was capable of doing otherwise, not when the Hobbit’s soft hair and sounds of contentment had invaded his dreams, even if he knew the company would continue to tease. 

And they did tease. Thorin had once grumbled something about “respecting their king” after Fili made a particularly unsubtle reference to Thorin’s growing affection to the burglar, but the sight of Balin’s incredulous expression had only convinced him it was a lost cause. How anyone was supposed to maintain an air of dignity and mystery on such a journey was beyond him at this point, and after a lifetime of trying to keep everyone at a distance as he focused on protecting his people, the camaraderie felt nicer than he was willing to admit.

So he had braided Bilbo’s hair that night, and again a few weeks later when the Hobbit came to him almost wordlessly with wisps falling out of the braids, and again after that. They hardly spoke during these times, and the others always left them alone. It felt almost like a different world, their time together in those moments, and Thorin would not have traded their shared peace for all the gold in Erebor, even if his nephews continued to make comments and he was quite sure Nori had some sort of bet on, although no one would tell him the specifics. He’d even caught Dwalin smiling at him after he slipped and brushed a stray lock of Bilbo’s hair behind his ears without thinking one day, causing the burglar to flush a delightful pink and several dwarves to hold in snickers to more or less degrees of success.

***

Things hadn’t been easy before, with Azog and the orcs on their trail, but the forest was something else entirely. Malice seemed to drip from every branch of those never-ending trees and the very air seemed to wish them harm. Thorin couldn’t pretend he was always the best leader in those days. A good one, sure, he kept everyone safe as they slogged endlessly down the trail, but maybe not a kind one, and he snapped far more often than he had during those steady days in the mountains, even at his beloved nephews. But somehow, even after a particularly bad day—it was their third without food and the complaining was beginning to grate on him, he had even spoken harshly to Bilbo when he attempted to cheer Ori— the burglar came to him and sat before him wordlessly with trust and patience. 

That was the first time Thorin braided a message into the Hobbit’s hair. In dwarven culture there were braids for everything; for joys and sorrows, love and mourning, for accolades and announcements and heritage. This was an apology braid. Just a small one, tucked behind the left ear. Bilbo wouldn’t know what it meant, of course, and Thorin had no intention of telling him. He hadn’t even noticed he was doing it, and he wasn’t sure it was Bilbo he was apologizing to. Maybe it was to all of them, his loyal company who had followed him into certain death and still followed him now, hungry and desperate through the darkness under the guidance of a gruff would-be-king just as lost as they were. But the braid was there nevertheless, hidden where no one would notice it, and when Thorin finished and thanked Bilbo he didn’t ask why, simply nodded and put his hand on Thorin’s briefly, before slipping away to join the rest of the company.

***

He added another message after the spiders and their capture. He had nearly cried when he saw Bilbo for the first time from where he paced in that wretched elven cell, still seething with anger. He had cursed the bars that prevented him from embracing the Hobbit. Bilbo looked so small in that cavernous dungeon—so determined—his eyes rimmed red and chin held high. It made Thorin’s chest feel tight. The poor Hobbit had been through so much, more than he ever should have if the world was kinder; things he would have been spared if he had stayed safely at home with his books and his chair rather than joining Thorin's desperate quest. But he was alive. He was alive and he was their only hope.

He visited Thorin every day, sneaking extra food when he could and providing news of the others and his attempts to devise a plan for their escape. Thorin was held alone and the isolation was made less maddening only by the fact that it at least allowed Bilbo to speak to him more freely. The basement cell was less-guarded due to its position so deep in the castle and Bilbo could often spend hours there without being interrupted. Still, Thorin spent most of his time alone, pacing desperately, feeling impossibly useless. He was not always kind to Bilbo when he came. He knew it wasn’t the hobbit’s fault, but the fact that he was out there, free, able to see the others, while Thorin sat helpless in a cage filled him with fury. But still Bilbo came, even when Thorin raged at him, even when he threw his few belongings around his meager cell and called the hobbit useless and worse, Bilbo always came.

It had been a few weeks, as best Thorin could tell in his windowless room, when Bilbo came to him and told him he had a plan. He looked exhausted. Thorin wasn’t sure how he had missed the dark rings under the Hobbit’s eyes, the way his clothes hung on his too-thin frame. He hadn’t thought to wonder what Bilbo was eating, where he was sleeping during their captivity. He wished to say something; to apologize for his temper, ask Bilbo if he was okay, to thank him for his unrelenting kindness and loyalty, but all he could do was nod tersely and ask when it was this plan could be enacted. Bilbo told him as much as he could before turning to leave.

“Wait…” The Hobbit stilled at the king’s voice, uncharacteristically gentle. Thorin, gestured him over to the edge of his bars and watched as the Hobbit sat hesitantly. He motioned for him to turn and smiled softly as Bilbo understood, leaning his head back so Thorin could reach it from his position seated on the floor of his cell.

“Bilbo—” The Hobbit started slightly. Thorin had been loath to wake him after seeing how badly he needed the rest, but it wouldn’t do for the Hobbit to be found sleeping here, not with their escape so close at hand.

“Mmm? Yes, sorry, I’m awake.” The Hobbit turned to face Thorin whose expression was almost tender.

“This one is for cleverness,” Thorin touched a point above the burglar’s left ear, and he raised his hand to find a rather intricate braid woven above it, snaking towards the back “and this is for bravery,” Thorin touched the other side where a thick 4 strand braid stood. “Akhminruki astû. You have my deepest gratitude, Bilbo, for all you have done for us, and for what you have yet to do.” 

Bilbo stared back at the solemn face of the king “I— I didn’t know dwarven braids had meanings to them.”

“Aye, they do, and they are not often shared with outsiders. But you have shown true and unwavering loyalty, even when perhaps I did not deserve it. I have not always been kind to you, and for that I am sorry. You deserve better from me. You—you are a true friend of our people and we appreciate you—I...appreciate you.”

“I—” the burglar was once again blushing fairly pink “oh you can speak rather prettily when you want to, you silly old dwarf. Of course I wouldn’t leave you, you daft thing, You— oh bravery and cleverness, my word you need not say these things.” Thorin found himself smiling at the blustering Hobbit.

“And yet I would say them anyway, it is no less than you deserve.”

“Oh you— dwarves! I shall slap you upside the head the lot of you once I get you out of these cells you’ll see if I don’t, with all your ‘at your service mister baggins’ and ‘your loyalty is commendable Master Burglar.’ Pish and nonsense! I can’t very well let you rot in these dungeons now can I? So, that will be enough of that. Bravery and cleverness...”

The Hobbit went away still muttering softly to himself and Thorin smiled a true smile for the first time in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a short (and sweet) chapter before we get into the angst times. Thank you to everyone who commented on the first chapter, it definitely motivated me to finish this thing :)
> 
> Akhminruki astû- Thank you (formal)


	3. Chapter 3

The barrel plan had not been ideal, but at least they were free from that cursed place. Imagining Thranduil's horror when he learned of their escape was the only thing keeping Thorin afloat amidst the now-pressing concerns of their final path and the dragon that awaited them. Well, perhaps not the only thing; the relief he felt at seeing his company again was beyond compare. Kili was hurt, but that would soon heal, and at least they were all together once more. 

And then there was the Hobbit. Balin had given him a particularly searching look when he recognized the braids in the Hobbit’s hair the morning after their escape to Laketown: “a debt owed,” “deepest gratitude.” It had taken an hour, but Bilbo hadn’t complained. He had sat patiently throughout, although Thorin knew he must be exhausted after all they had been through that day. He could barely keep his eyes open himself, but when he closed them he saw the Orc’s arrow piercing Kili’s leg, heard Bilbo’s screams when one of those foul creatures jumped on top of his barrel. What if Thorin hadn’t been fast enough? Bilbo had already given so much for Thorin’s family, his people, and he had come close to giving his life far too often for Thorin’s comfort. 

There was an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. The guilt, the fear, the weight of responsibility—those were known to him all too well, but there was something else too. Something he could not quite express with words. So he would have to find some other way to show his gratitude to the burglar—to impress upon him somehow the awe he felt at his dedication, how much Thorin owed this small brave creature. He knew Bilbo wouldn’t understand the meaning of the braids, but he was compelled to do it nevertheless, like maybe just the act of doing them would be enough to settle the feeling in his stomach when he looked at the Hobbit, to make him see how Thorin cared. Maybe the time and effort taken, the motion of the strong, sturdy hands as they gingerly wove the hair into the correct pattern would be enough to express what his tongue could not. It would have to be.

***  
It was only a few nights later that Thorin found himself pacing anxiously around the small room the Master had allotted him. Even after all they had endured, the approach of Durin’s day made him feel like he might finally suffocate under the weight of his responsibilities; the weight he had carried since his father disappeared, since his grandfather went mad, since the day the dragon took everything from him. Would he really be there tomorrow? Would he look again on the great halls of his childhood with his now weary eyes? What if they were unable to find the door? Thorin would almost rather face an army of Orcs again than the disappointment in his company’s eyes if they were to fail this close to their goal. 

And if they succeeded and opened that door, what of the dragon? He had been a fool to trust Gandalf. He knew the wizard had some grander self interest in this quest, but he had been too blinded by the dream of restoring his ancient home to care what it was. He had hoped that whatever his own motives, Gandalf’s plan would at least be sound, but now the hours ticked down to Durin’s dawn and the wizard was nowhere to be found.

He reached towards a silver ornament sitting on the table and threw it to the ground in frustration, listening to the satisfying clatter on the stones. No, Thorin would have to face this alone, as with everything else in his life. He was king, those burdens were his to shoulder, and he would follow through until the end. This quest would succeed. It must; he could not fail those to whom he had promised so much: his brave kin who followed him on this fool’s errand, his people in exile in Ered Luin and now even to the men of Laketown who supported them. He thought of the Hobbit, so small surrounded by all those men— _"I will vouch for him."_ It made his heart clench. 

He would not fail. He couldn’t.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock on the wooden door and his feet stilled.

“Enter.” His voice sounded hard—tight with anxiety.

He felt his shoulders slump as the handle turned and a small face peered cautiously into the room. “Sorry, did I wake you?” He looked at the Hobbit staring slightly wide-eyed at him. He must look a mess, he realized. His hair was unbraided and tangled after the few hours he had spent attempting to sleep and he was still in his rumpled, stained rags from their journey, although the master had given them fine clothes to wear the next day when they set out in front of the whole town.

“No. No, you—” The Hobbit schooled his expression into something more neutral, but he was still looking at Thorin oddly. “I couldn’t sleep,” he finished awkwardly. It was his eyes, Thorin realized, they seemed, soft? As if he was worried for Thorin somehow.

“Ah.” He turned away from Bilbo’s gaze. He didn’t know what to do with concern, he never had.

“Sorry to bother you, I just thought—I was afraid you might be—It’s just a big day tomorrow is all, I thought maybe you could use some company.”

Thorin deflated at the burglar’s words. “Thank you, Bilbo. And thank you for earlier, for vouching for me. It was nobly done.” He moved to sit on the bed and motioned for the Hobbit to sit beside him.

“Nonsense, every word of it was true, as you know.” The burglar shuffled over, making a dismissive gesture with his hand before pausing. “I could have said quite a bit more, only it was rather intimidating and I suppose I said enough anyway.”

“And what would you have said, Master Burglar, if you were not so intimidated?” Thorin was suddenly aware of their close proximity as Bilbo sat on the bed beside him. They usually didn’t sit this close unless Thorin was braiding.

“Bilbo, if you please,” he said softly. Thorin only leveled his gaze at him, noting the faint pink on the tips of the burglar’s ears. 

The Hobbit hesitated for a moment before cocking his head as if daring Thorin to disagree with him. “I would have said that Thorin Oakenshield is the best dwarf I have ever known. That he is a great leader and will make a great King Under the Mountain. That he is the most impressive warrior I’ve ever seen and that he is noble, and wise and not afraid to admit when he’s wrong, even if it takes him a while.” He gently nudged Thorin’s shoulder with his own. “That he is brave, and good, and thinks about the welfare of his people above all else and those people deserve a home, as much as any of us do, and you have no right to stand in their way, nor to question his word and his honor.”

Thorin looked at Bilbo, speechless. The Hobbit’s cheeks were burning but he was still looking at Thorin with those soft eyes and he was smiling. That feeling in his chest was back with a vengeance, the unfamiliar one. His heart beat faster, but it didn’t feel like the fear of before at all; rather, it felt like a new kind of fear—a good one. It made him feel warm and powerful. 

When others told him he would be a great king it made him think of all the ways he could fail, could let them down, but Bilbo’s words made him want to prove the Hobbit right, like maybe he could grab onto those words, that soft smile and they would see him through to the end of this dark road. He wanted to see Bilbo’s smile when they succeeded, to see how he would smile at the proud King Under the Mountain, restorer of his people’s home.

But first he would have to actually succeed. He would have to open that secret door, face a dragon and who knows what other challenges. He felt reality come crashing back around him at the thought, stamping out that warm strange feeling like an ember crushed beneath a boot. He saw Bilbo’s eyes shift as Thorin’s smile dropped. 

“Thank you, Master Hobbit. You do me a kindness to say such things, but only time will tell if they are true." Thorin placed his hand on the burglar's before withdrawing it once more. "You should rest, tomorrow will not be easy for any of us.”

“Again, I say: nonsense. Those things are true now and you would do well to remember them Thorin Oakenshield, grump under the mountain.” Thorin didn’t even smile at the Hobbit’s scolding tone and he felt the burglar rise with a sigh. “I’m sorry I can’t do more to ease your mind. I suppose you’re right then, I’ll see myself to bed. Only I—”

Thorin looked up to find the Hobbit standing front of him, only slightly taller than the seated dwarf. He would have been looking down, only he wasn’t meeting Thorin’s eyes and his cheeks were slightly pink. 

“Perhaps, I could braid your hair, if you like. I can’t promise I would be any good at it, but I do know how.” Bilbo was smiling tentatively.

“No.” Thorin barely noticed how the Hobbit’s smile fell, so consumed by the overwhelming rush of emotions at his offer. He was suddenly on his feet, towering over the small creature in front of him, who was blinking at the vehemence of his statement. “Absolutely not, you—” Thorin shook his head; there were no words.

“Right, sorry.” Bilbo was clearly trying to regain his composure, but he was still looking at Thorin with those wide, confused eyes. “I shouldn’t have offered, isn’t my place to—”

“No, it isn’t your place!” Thorin wasn’t sure why he was shouting. Of course it wasn’t the Hobbit’s place. Who was he to offer Thorin such a thing? He wasn’t his kin, his lover, he wasn’t even a dwarf, for Mahal’s sake, but he would come here and offer and _oh_ —

The Hobbit was still looking at him, scared. Bilbo looked _scared_. Thorin deflated. “I am sorry.” He said stiffly “You don’t understand. Dwarven hair is—it is very important to us. I know you did not mean to cause offense, I should not have shouted at you.”

“Right.” Bilbo still looked bewildered but he was no longer leaning away from Thorin as if he might explode, rather he looked—oh—the Hobbit looked hurt. “I’ll just—leave you then. My apologies for—insulting you.” He looked towards the door but made no move to walk towards it.

Thorin scrubbed his hand across his face. How had he ruined everything so impressively? Truly, it seemed like that was his true calling, to rage at those he loved until they left him. Why did they never leave him? The Hobbit was still standing before him, eyes lowered to the stone floor like a chastised child. He had only meant to help and Thorin had convinced him he had wronged his honor.

“No, you have not insulted me. You could not have known and it was—kind, of you to offer. Thank you, Bilbo.” He placed his hands on the Hobbit’s shoulders causing him to look up. He still looked confused, but some of the hurt had eased.

“I am sorry, all the same. Try to get some rest,” he placed his hand atop Thorin’s broader one on his shoulder and the King nodded softly as the Hobbit turned to go, looking back at him once more before closing the door.

Thorin sighed heavily before returning to his place on the bed, his face in his hands. Why had he reacted so to the Hobbit’s words? He knew Bilbo only meant to show care, of course he did. Then why had he felt so damned angry? So angry and sad. 

He had felt sad. Sad that Bilbo would make that offer and not know what it meant. Sad that Thorin could not accept; that to have his head in the Hobbit’s hands, those nimble fingers through his coarse hair would crush him. Why?

Only his kin had ever braided his hair before. Maybe when he was a youth he had had idle daydreams of finding his One, but those thoughts had long been set aside by the crushing weight of the concerns of his people, by the weight the world had placed on him. Sure, once he had hoped to someday meet that dwarrow who would look at him like he was the most precious treasure they had ever beheld, touch him like he was the only craft worthy of their attention, but that couldn’t hold sway over him now, could it? Maybe that was it. Thorin was secretly still a romantic—or a prude—whichever was worse. He didn’t want anyone to braid his hair out of pity or concern or friendship. He wanted something more. “ _Something more from Bilbo,_ ” a traitorous voice whispered in his mind. 

Is that what he wanted? “ _Yes,_ ” his mind supplied. He wanted Bilbo to look at him like that, to touch him like that. Images of the Hobbit smiling at him flashed through his mind; of the Hobbit’s head tipped back in his lap, an expression of absolute contentment on his face, things that had passed and those that hadn’t: The Hobbit tutting as he tried to work a comb through Thorin’s thick tresses, of Bilbo at his side as he sat upon the throne of his people. The feeling in his chest was overwhelming now. “ _Love,_ ” his mind helpfully—if belatedly—offered. He was in love with Bilbo Baggins. The Hobbit was his One. 

But did Bilbo feel the same? He might. He let Thorin braid his hair, he had for months, but Bilbo didn’t know what that meant. Even if he felt peace and companionship with Thorin, even if he called him brave and good and “the best dwarf he has ever known” and came to comfort him, that didn’t mean the Hobbit loved him. Not in the way Thorin so desired.

Would it matter if he did? Thorin was a King, Bilbo wasn’t even a dwarf. And he would go home. Thorin felt his heart sink at the realization. Of course he would. The Hobbit loved his home, he had talked of almost nothing but it their whole journey. Even if he did love in return, Thorin could not keep Bilbo from his home. 

No, it would not matter and Thorin could not allow his newly realized feelings to cloud his judgement in this final, crucial hour of their quest. Bilbo still had a part to play, the most dangerous part of any of them. He must do what he was hired to do and steal from the Dragon’s lair. As much as it scared him to put his Hobbit in such danger, it was what was necessary for the quest. This is how it must be. Thorin breathed deeply, pushing his feelings back down and adopting the cool demeanor he had perfected for so long. Thorin did not have the luxury of love, he was the future King Under the Mountain, not some moon-eyed peasant, and whatever he might wish for himself, the needs of his people came first. He would not speak of his feelings for the Hobbit. “ _Unless we succeed,_ ” that same traitorous part of his brain whispered. “ _Then you may tell Bilbo exactly how you feel and maybe he will stay._ ” Perhaps, but first they must face Durin’s day, and all that came with it.

***

When Thorin finally slept he did not dream of the Hobbit’s curls—he dreamt of dragon fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy it's real angst hours now y'all. I split this chapter in half because there is so much more Thorin angst to come before we get to BOtFA and Bilbo POV. Tune in next week (or maybe sooner) to watch our beloved Thorin Oakenshield make some Bad Choices TM because he is very traumatized and does not know how to deal with his feelings.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to comment, it has been so incredibly lovely and makes my day every time!


	4. Chapter 4

Thorin was doing well. His company was finally on their way to the mountain and making a good pace. They would reach the door well before evening fell at this rate. His nerves and doubts from the night before could hold no power over him in the warm light of day. No, he would not be paralyzed by fear and hesitation; he understood his purpose and knew he had the resolve to see it through, there was no reason for him to feel anything but determination and happiness as they approached their beloved lost home to finally take it back.

_Bilbo had smiled at him that morning, the dawn light filtering through the curls that escaped his braids and brushed against his cheek. Thorin had nodded politely and kept walking, ignoring the sinking feeling in his chest at the way the Hobbit’s smile fell._

Yes, Thorin was happy. It had hurt to leave Kili behind, but he knew they had no other option—the quest must succeed. Fili's choice to stay with his brother was unfortunate, but someday he would understand as Thorin did; kings must make these decisions. The fate of all is more important than one dwarf, and a king could not let his personal feelings affect his judgement. Yes, Fili would understand that well enough when he was king. He ignored the stab at the thought of his sweet, hopeful nephew someday as cold and serious as his heroic uncle. Things would be better when Fili was king, Thorin would make sure of that. Fili would not have to see his people through death and famine and betrayal. He would not sacrifice his heart, his softness to be the leader his kingdom needed. No, Thorin would retake Erebor and Fili would rule a new era of joy and plenty, as his great grandfather once had. Thorin would make sure that his own sacrifices would not be for nothing.

Gandalf wasn’t at their meeting point, but Thorin had expected that. They would have to push on alone; they had no other choice. Their burglar would have to play his part, but hadn’t he proved he was up to the task? They would go on with the plan as intended. Thorin watched as the mountain loomed closer and closer before him. He almost didn’t notice Balin beside him until the old dwarf spoke.

“Are you well, Thorin Oakenshield?”

“As well as can be expected.” He had no time for Balin’s knowing looks and cryptic comments today, he must remain focused.

“I know this quest lays heavy on your mind, but I do not like to see you treat your company so brusquely. You seem different this morning.”

“Are you questioning my judgement?”

“No, my king, I am simply worried for you. I know what returning to Erebor means to you.”

“You are concerned I do not know my mind,” Thorin leveled a harsh look at the old dwarf. “Your worry is misplaced. I assure you I do.” He hoped his clipped tone left little room for argument.

“It is not your mind I am worried about Thorin, son of Thrain, it is your heart.”

“You think I do not know my heart?” Thorin spoke softly. So, he had noticed Thorin’s change towards the Hobbit. 

“I think perhaps you do, you are just afraid to.” Balin was being gentle now and that almost made it worse.

“This quest must succeed,” Thorin gritted out through his teeth “I will not let lesser distractions be an impediment to our goal.”

“Aye, and it is a noble goal indeed, but it is not worth the things we would not sacrifice.”

“It is worth every sacrifice,” Thorin replied, willing himself to believe it.

“Somehow, I don’t think you truly believe that. Or at least, I hope you do not.” Balin raised an eyebrow at him. His tone was still light but something harder glimmered in his eyes.

“I believe I will do whatever it takes to ensure the success of this endeavor. As we all must, and I expect your cooperation in this.” Thorin swallowed hard, willing away the feelings that pushed against his heart. They would succeed and then—Thorin could deal with whatever came next after that.

***

He almost felt it all slip away when the last light of Durin’s day dipped behind those grand mountains but then Bilbo— _clever, brilliant, hopeful_ Bilbo—had found their keyhole and suddenly they had done it. 

The elation at their success was short-lived. Every second the burglar spent in the mountain felt longer and Thorin watched as his company grew more and more fearful. Then they felt it. _No. It cannot be_. It had been mere fantasy to believe Smaug could be dead, such luck had never been the lot of Thorin’s people. No, the dragon was alive. And he was _awake._

“What about Bilbo?” Ori’s nervous face reflected Thorin’s own feelings but he could not crack.

“Give him more time.” He hoped his voice sounded more sure than he felt. This was the only plan they had. Bilbo had his ring, he could yet escape. He could bring the Arkenstone and Thorin could call the dwarven armies to him. How could they face a dragon, just their small party? This was their only hope.

“Time to do what, to be killed?” Thorin flinched at Balin’s words.

“You’re afraid,” he remonstrated the old dwarf. 

“Yes I’m afraid; I fear for you. A sickness lies upon that treasure, Thorin—a sickness which drove your grandfather mad.”

“I am not my grandfather.” How long would the madness of his forefathers haunt him? Could Balin not understand their situation?

“You’re not yourself. The Thorin I know would not hesitate to go in there,” he pressed.

“I will not risk this quest for the life of one—” His voice felt caught in his throat “burglar” He choked out. This was his worst fears realized.

Balin’s face was screwed up with reproach “Bilbo,” he bit out “His name is Bilbo.”

Thorin sighed and turned. Balin was an old fool. He did not understand as Thorin did, but he was still right. He would not sacrifice Bilbo, he would not lose more of his heart to that cursed lizard, to this place that had taken everything from him. 

Thorin rushed down the hall, he could feel fire, hot against his face— _dragonfire_ and where was Bilbo? Was the Hobbit still alive? Had Thorin lost his One in his stubbornness? He felt his breath leave him as he stopped in his tracks at the sight before him: Gold, and endless sea of gold. Somewhere within that sea of riches lay his destiny: the Arkenstone.

***  
But the Arkenstone did not want to be found. For days now, they had searched. Even with the dragon dispatched and his company reunited they had still not succeeded. Thorin had barely ate nor slept, but such things mattered little. His people’s treasure was finally reclaimed, his birthright almost secured and yet that final, all-important piece eluded him. 

_“Someone must have taken it.”_ The new voice in his head did not sound as the old one had, it was smooth, commanding, honey-sweet. _“Someone must be hiding it. They cannot be trusted; they are possessed by greed. You must find it. You are not King Under the Mountain, not until you have claimed the treasure beyond treasures.” ___

He must find it. The Hobbit might know. The Hobbit would not betray him. He did not understand why he was so sure of the fact— _hazy memories of hands moving through soft curls_ —but he was. Somehow, he knew the Hobbit was to be trusted— _no one can be trusted_ —maybe from the hint of warmth that followed on the rare occasion that he thought of the 14th member of their company. The same inclination that compelled him to gift the burglar a shirt of mithril, that filled him in the quiet moment where the Hobbit told him about the acorn, his dreams of his home. But such things were unimportant— _focus, Thorin Oakenshield, would-be-King-Under-The-Mountain_. They were distractions from his goal, his duty. Thorin would not be defeated this close to his goal. 

____

____

And now those cursed elves were closing in, humans begging, _threatening_ at his doorstep, laying claim upon the gold his people bled for so long ago, as he had always known they would— _this cannot be borne_. No other creature could ever understand a dwarf. They saw them as cold stone, as grasping creatures of the darkness incapable of love or honor— _you are alone_. Everywhere they looked was betrayal— _the punishment for which must be death, you know this Thorin Oakenshield._ And now these villains thought they could cheat him, that they could make the King Under the Mountain bend under their intimidation— _I would die first._ No, he would not see it happen. He would not be swindled by these grasping, conniving mercenaries. He could trust no one. He would find the Arkenstone, he would rally his people, and he would destroy those who dared challenge him.

***

In his dreams Thorin was drowning in a pile of gold. The thing he sought always just beyond his grasp, he fell endlessly into cold, heavy darkness as coin and treasure glimmered all around him. Sometimes, a small hand reached down to pull him up, but he always slipped through those fingers and into the inky blackness. When he woke up drenched in sweat he could not remember what he had dreamt at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update before now but my job got REAL WILD and I got very busy. This is still so fun to write though and there's so much angst and fluff to come so I'm not giving up on it. 
> 
> As you can see, I tried to find an explanation for the fact that Thorin kind of starts acting like a dick before he even sees the gold and after an entire series of being clearly in love with Bilbo suddenly needs to be convinced to not let him die so in this story he is on his angsty King bullshit because he is a traumatized and repressed dwarf who realizes he's in love with Bilbo and is like NOPE! NOT ALLOWED TO HAVE FEEELINGS. BEST WAY TO DO LEADERSHIP IS OBVIOUSLY TO BE AS STOIC AS POSSIBLE. Which is sad and hilarious for a dwarf who is very clearly motivated by his love for his people and his kin this whole time.
> 
> Some dialogue taken from _The Desolation of Smaug_ (2013) by Peter Jackson
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading and commenting!


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